Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I tucked my hands under the pillow and avoided looking his way. I fought not to recoil at the touch of his hands, but I was terrified of doing anything to encourage him to pull out that ring box and ask the question I had spent months pining for. I pinched my eyes shut to avoid conversation and counted down the hours until landing.
As I pretended to sleep, I tried to remember exactly what Jillian had said. Dissociative personality disorder. That’s what she had called it, right? Or maybe it was dissociative identity disorder. Given the time and different stages of his life, he's had as many as five different personalities ... His hand on the girl’s thigh. Her smudged lip-gloss. How many women had he flirted with? How many had he slept with? All while dating me? Falling in love with me? Preparing to propose to me?
He's very good at hiding; his personalities are even better. All of the missed dates. The things I'd blamed on forgetfulness. So many times he'd left during the night… to go where? To do what?
We risk ... losing the Brant that you love ... forever.
All I wanted was to be back home. I needed my house and my solitude and the chance to figure this mess out, and to decide if there was any chance of keeping my heart together from splitting in two.
Three months later, Lee stepped up to me in that gas station store and flashed his smile. What would you have done? I had loved one side of Brant. Was it really that strange that I fell in love with another?
Chapter 63
PRESENT DAY
I don’t care what Jillian says, I have to tell Brant the truth. He's an intelligent man, the smartest I've ever known. He loves me, and Lee loves me. There should be a path, somewhere, with that intersection of emotion, that will work.
Maybe I should talk to Jillian about this, but I can’t. I’m too worried about what she would say. The orders she will shove down my throat. Orders I have no intention of following. Orders that will probably be logical and just, but I’m pressed against an electric fence, and I just can’t take the sensation a moment longer.
I know what the right thing to do is: to allow Brant to live his separate lives without interference. I understand that. But it's too late for that. I fucked up this entire situation two years ago. When I saw Lee and stepped closer. Fucked him in a parking lot and fell in love with his smile. Chased him down and wrestled his heart into submission.
I only have two options. Lose Lee or tell Brant. The first I’m too selfish to consider. The second puts Brant’s psychological well-being in danger. Again, I know what I should do. What path Jillian would scream at me, her hatred compounding with every word, and it would be completely justified.
Am I really this horrible? I think the answer is yes. I know it’s wrong, but my love is too strong to feel anything but right. I can't lose Lee. And I did—I’ve been doing all of this—out of love for Brant.
Yes, this is selfish.
Yes, I am putting Brant in danger.
Yes, I am possibly saving my relationships in the process.
Yes, I am taking the biggest gamble of my life.
I love them both too much to do anything else.
I pour two glasses of wine slowly, watching the dark burgundy liquid as it sloshes into the crystal. Through the open glass sliders, the wave of ocean wind is crisp in the dark evening, and out there, on the wide balcony, Brant waits for me. On a normal evening, we would discuss our future plans, the events of the day, memories from our past.
Now, as I walked through the open doors and took my place on the outdoor couch next to Brant, I wondered if those nights were gone from our relationship forever. Handing him his glass, I try to figure out where to begin.
Out above the water, the moon sits, half full, its reflection stretched over the rippling water. Small birds have made their nests in the rafters of this porch, and they coo and trill at odd intervals in the night. I watch as he settles back against the dark navy cushions of the outdoor couch, the tips of his fingers resting on the top of the wine glass. Every few moments, he takes a sip, and this is his favorite—an expensive merlot that we discovered at a charity tasting and now had a case delivered twice yearly, the bottles placed in the climate-controlled wine cellar below the kitchen.
His wine is half gone by the time I finally speak. "I've been keeping something from you." I set my glass on the table and twist on the cushion to face him.